The Swan Maiden

by Susan King

“And what of you?” she asked.

  “I am not overly tired. There is much to be done here.”

  “I mean—where will you sleep?” she half whispered.

  He glanced at the bed curtained in green, and looked through the side door into the solar, which contained a bench in a wide window niche. A man could sleep there if he had to, he thought.

  He sighed and leaned against the window frame, and thought of their nights together. Sweet secrets and unspoken truces. He wanted more of that with her. He hoped she did, too.

  “Where do you want me to sleep?” he asked quietly.

  She blushed. “Do we pretend the happy marriage here too?”

  “Do you object?”

  She shook her head. “Nay. But … ’twas necessary at Avenel. Here—here ’tis different. You are to tame me and make me loyal to your king, and show the Scots the proper direction for their own loyalties.”

  “Ah. Shall we begin, then?”

  “The proper direction for the English,” she said, as if reciting, “is to go south.”

  He laughed. “Ah, there is the Swan Maiden I know. ’Twas apprehension that subdued you today—not surrender.”

  She scowled. “I willna surrender, nor will I tame.”

  “I do not expect it of you,” he murmured.

  “Am I to be treated as a prisoner, or as a wife?”

  “How would you be treated?”

  “Courteously,” she answered. “Without chaining.”

  “May I remind you that I no longer have the golden chains.”

  “De Soulis has those chains. If he insists that I am to be kept that way again, what will you do?”

  “You are my wife, and in my safekeeping now. Do you think I will chain you?” He tilted his head. “Do you think that disobeying De Soulis would disturb my conscience?”

  Her cheeks tinted rose as she shook her head. “But if I must act the constable’s happy wife, then I want the privileges his lady would have—freedom to do what I like, and go where I choose. I am at home now, with no reason to run.”

  “You will have freedom, but you must cooperate. You may go anywhere between here and the abbey, and anywhere else within sight of Laurie.”

  “Cooperate with what?” she asked carefully.

  “There is an oath of obedience and fealty to learn, so that you can say it nicely for the king.”

  “That,” she said, folding her arms, “I canna do.”

  He inclined his head to acknowledge her stubbornness, but he would not give in to it. “The oath will be taken, sooner or later. Also, I must have your promise that you will always return to me at the end of the day.”

  Her eyes seemed to search his. “Aye,” she whispered.

  “One thing more—do not involve yourself with rebels.”

  “There are no rebels at Elladoune.” Her eyes grew wide and ingenuous, startling blue in the light from the window.

  She was good at ruses, he thought. “Do I have your promise in these matters?”

  “What will you promise me in return?”

  “To trust you.”

  She studied him. “I need a guarantee.”

  “So do I.” He drew closer. “Shall we seal it?”

  She nodded slowly. He rested his lips upon hers, soft as a butterfly alighting. When her body curved toward him, his heart knocked like a drum. “There,” he said, “ ’tis sealed.”

  She bit her lip and then slowly shook her head.

  “What?” He almost laughed. “Not enough?”

  She shook her head again, staring up at him.

  He growled low and took her by the shoulders. As her head tipped back and her eyes closed, he kissed her profoundly, deeply, as he had wanted to do ever since he had woken beside her that morning in the heavenly quiet of Avenel.

  Her hands rested on his waist. Desire poured through him. His mouth moving over hers satisfied only the edge of his hunger. He wanted to sweep her up and carry her to the curtained bed.

  Heart pounding, he drew away. Her head stayed back, eyes still closed, simple ecstasy on her face. Her breasts were soft and firm against him. The sensation drove him closer to madness.

  “Is that binding enough for you?” he asked hoarsely.

  She nodded. “Better than chains.” She sounded breathless.

  “Some manacles,” he said, cupping the side of her face, “are not made of gold or steel. Some chains are invisible, yet bind the heart firm.”

  “And what chains are those?” she whispered.

  “If you do not know,” he said, “ ’tis no use to tell you.”

  She stared up at him and did not answer.

  “My dear wife,” he murmured, taking his hands from her face, “you are tired. And I have duties as a constable that I cannot neglect longer.”

  Striding from the room, he closed the door behind him. The coolness of the stairwell and his forceful step subdued the heated throbbing in his body. But nothing diminished the tug he felt as he walked across the yard, as if a golden cord spun out, linking him with the girl in the tower room.

  Late that night, Gawain stood in the small solar and looked through the window. Entranced by the view—a sweep of lavender sky above dark mountains and the sparkling indigo loch—he stood unmoving and thoughtful, his foot resting on the stone bench.

  In the room behind him, Juliana slept deeply, as she had for hours. Earlier he had brought her some fresh ale the monks had supplied, and something to eat—a burned oatcake proudly produced by Laurie. She scarcely roused enough to swallow a little watered ale before sliding back into sleep. He had not disturbed her since, although he had looked in on her a few times, touching her head gently before closing the curtain again.

  Though the hour was late, he could not sleep. Laurie had claimed the largest chamber on the floor below, declaring it his privilege as the second in command at Elladoune. The monks had returned to Inchfillan Abbey, after explaining to Gawain and Laurie the features of the castle, and showing them its stores and livestock. Laurie had prepared supper from garden vegetables and salted venison, found in the storeroom.

  Gawain wrinkled his nose at the thought of that thin and unsavory pottage. A cook would have to be found, he told himself; Laurie was willing, but not up to the task. He wondered if the abbot could lend some of his monks to work in the kitchen, or if Juliana could find a local goodwife to come to the castle.

  In the advancing darkness, the swans floated on the loch, tiny, pale blurs. He remembered that they had been out there on the water the night Elladoune had burned. But of course they would still swim and nest here. Swans were creatures of habit. The fire and the garrison had not frightened them away.

  He thought of the legend of another disaster, long ago: a terrible storm, brought on by magic, had destroyed an island fortress in this very loch. Hundreds of people had died here. According to the tale, they had transformed into swans.

  He frowned, musing about the legend and remembering the first time he had heard the tale from his grandfather. The ruins of Glenshie were not far from Elladoune, he knew—but where?

  Across the loch, mountain slopes thrust upward. He studied each shape, searching for a certain contour, an image that he remembered from childhood: an old woman’s face in a mountainside.

  As a boy, he had called it Beinn an Aodann—mountain of the face—imagining that a giantess lived there. He could not recall the local name. He stood for a long while, searching the profiles of the hills.

  He was not trying to avoid going to his wife’s bed. Sooner or later, he knew that he would go there. An implicit agreement had occurred between them, although he was not sure when or how. But he felt it with conviction in his heart. He suspected that she did too. Time—and gentleness—would tell.

  The lure of the enclosed bed, with Juliana inside its sanctuary, was strong. She slept, and needed sleep, but he hoped that she would at least turn to welcome his arms. He wanted no more than that just now. Being here, so close to Glenshie and yet so far from it, he
desperately craved solace for his soul.

  The only place he could find that was alone with Juliana. Yet he lingered, searching the skyline for the giantess’s face.

  Wherever that was, he would find Glenshie.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They came as they always had, gliding in toward the shore when she appeared, their graceful white bodies reflected in the rippling mirror of the water. Leisurely they swam toward her, without greeting or flurry, as if no time had passed.

  As if she had not changed to the core of her soul since the last time she had stood here.

  She tossed grain from a small sack and watched the swans feed. Their heads dipped, their bodies spun as they sought the offerings. Life was simple and direct for them, peace amid wildness. They accepted the food, just as they accepted her presence or her absence.

  Only a few weeks had passed since she had last been here, but she had changed. She felt wiser, deeper, more aware of her need for peace, and home—and love. The doors of her life had opened, and Gawain had walked in, like a torch in the darkness. And nothing would ever be the same again.

  She frowned to herself, remembering with an exquisite shiver how she had awakened in the middle of the night to find him asleep beside her. She lay beside him, savoring his warmth and the reassuring cadence of his breathing before she slept again.

  She stepped toward the water, careful not to wet the hem of the mulberry gown that Gawain’s mother had given her. Until she sent for her things at Inchfillan, she had only this or the white gown. Though the white satin held unpleasant memories, the mulberry serge was a comforting reminder of Avenel and the brief happiness she had felt there.

  She looked over her shoulder at her chaperones. Laurie Kirkpatrick sat beneath a tree, while Brother Eonan sat nearby, pulling blades of grass as the two men talked. Each, now and then, glanced toward her. As usual, she kept a careful silence.

  After awakening late that morning, she had breakfasted on some unappetizing oatcakes, which Laurie proudly claimed were of his own making. He then told her that Gawain had ridden out to Dalbrae to see the sheriff.

  Exploring the castle more thoroughly after breakfast, she had noted further changes, and recalled more memories. Then she had gone to the loch with Laurie and Brother Eonan, who had come to the castle with some monks to tend the garden and the livestock.

  The swans moved slowly in the water, and she walked along the bank, tossing grain to them, deep in her thoughts. Past a curve in the bank, she entered a little cove that was protected by a thick fringe of birches, out of sight of Laurie and Eonan.

  Beyond the cove’s outermost point, the loch narrowed like a waist, hardly wider than a river. Pine trees edged the opposite shore, fronting the dense forest where her rebel friends and kinsmen hid.

  She felt a sudden urge to ignore her imposed boundaries and cross the loch to visit the forest rebels. Eonan might realize where she had gone, for he knew the rebels’ hiding places as well as any of the monks. But he would not tell Laurie, she was sure.

  Stripping out of her gown, she folded it and stuffed it under a fallen tree limb. Clad only in her linen chemise, she slipped into the water. Its coolness surrounded her as she sank down to her shoulders with a quiet sigh. She had always loved the sheer freedom of water.

  The swans circled her, and she drew a breath and dove beneath them, surging far out in the water before surfacing for another breath. As she turned, arms treading, she saw that a few of the swans had glided out with her, forming a perfect shield.

  On the shore, Laurie and Eonan sat with their backs to her. She took a breath and shot under the surface like an arrow, coming up for breath only twice more before reaching the shore.

  Finding the familiar rock shelf below the water level, she grabbed it and pulled upward. Hidden by the low-hanging eaves of a huge pine, she climbed out, water sluicing from her.

  This spot had long been a rendezvous. Sheltered beneath the swooping arms of the pine, she reached inside a fallen tree trunk and pulled out a canvas sack that she knew would be there.

  As she expected, she found spare clothing: a bleached linen chemise, two tunics, a shirt, and soft boots. She pulled off her wet chemise and tucked it out of sight to dry, then dressed in the shirt, the serge tunic, and boots, which she had appropriated years ago from her brothers’ belongings and kept here for her use. In the little cove, she kept a similar cache of belongings, including a white, feathered cape.

  Within moments, she ran along a half-hidden track, her feet silent on a thick carpet of pine needles and bracken.

  Struck to her soul, she stood in the entrance of the cave where the rebel families hid and looked out over the forest. She blinked against tears. A large portion had been laid waste by fire. Charred stumps of trees thrust upward, separated from the dense greenwood by a wide stream.

  “What happened?” She turned to look at Red Angus and Lucas, who sat by the fire with some of the others. “While I was gone, what happened? Father Abbot mentioned nothing of this!”

  “The sheriff’s men rode here,” Lucas answered curtly. He came forward, a short, dark, powerful man with anger etched in the folds of his face. “They suspect rebel activity in the forest, although Father Abbot has told them that only homeless innocents live here.”

  “The sheriff intends to eliminate any rebel threat in this area, so they are destroying the forest bit by bit,” Red Angus said. He came forward from the fireside, too, so tall that he had to duck head and shoulders to stand with Juliana and Lucas. “Soon there will be nowhere to live. We have too many already living in these caves.” He gestured toward the rocky hillside, split with a few narrow cave entrances.

  “We will be forced to leave Glen Fillan entirely,” Lucas growled. “De Soulis will persist until he destroys us all!”

  “We have weapons and armor put by, and enough men to wield them,” Juliana said. “We can fight back.”

  “Fight back, says you? The girl who will only lift her bow to stick a target?” Lucas asked.

  “We cannot defeat De Soulis,” Angus said. “That black armor of his is impenetrable. You know what they say of it. Not one of us will rise up against a man who practices the black arts!”

  “He is just a king’s man. Remember the stories said of me—there is no truth to them. I practice no magical arts. Why do you believe such rumors about him?”

  “We have shot arrows at De Soulis from the treetops,” Lucas said. “Every bolt bounces off his armor. He cannot be stopped. He bought it from the devil, they say.”

  She frowned. “Surely there is some way to stop him.”

  “He and his men will search the forests until every one of us is taken or killed. We have children and elderly to protect. Our only choice is to go elsewhere,” Lucas replied.

  “Juliana,” an old woman said. She turned to see Beithag shuffle forward, her head and shoulders bowed beneath the plaid pulled over the crown of her head. “You can help us now.”

  “Mother Beithag, I doubt it, now. De Soulis does not believe in the ploy of the Swan Maiden,” Juliana reminded her.

  “But now you are wed to the garrison commander at Elladoune,” Beithag said. “Let our men into the fortress at night, so they can take it over, as we have planned so long.”

  “You can do that,” Angus urged, nodding.

  Juliana frowned, feeling pressured, resisting a scheme that weeks ago she had supported. But she could not see it through if it would compromise Gawain’s well-being. Sighing heavily, she looked from one hopeful, dearly familiar face to the next.

  “My husband would suffer for it,” she said. “I … I cannot betray him.”

  “Ach,” Lucas muttered with disgust, turning away.

  “Only let us in,” Angus said. “We will do the rest. We have weapons and armor stored away—”

  “Please do not ask this of me!”

  Lucas scowled. “Before, you would have helped us!”

  “Look at her face—leave her be,” Beithag said. “Sh
e has feelings for her Sassenach husband. A wife should never betray her husband. Find some other way of taking the castle.”

  “Gawain Avenel has shown kindness to me, and so I cannot play him false,” Juliana explained defensively. “That is all.”

  “Ach,” Lucas ground out again. “Now what? We have been kind to you too. Some of us are your kin. We have children here, a woman with child, others who need help and shelter. Will you turn your back on us?”

  Anguish yanked at her. Angus’s glance was sympathetic, but Lucas glowered; he would never let her be about this, she knew.

  “Juliana,” Angus said. “We men can fend for ourselves. Some of us want to join the rebel army, but we cannot leave our families like this. You can ask your husband to help us.”

  Lucas snorted. “Not him! He has already begun his campaign against us!”

  Juliana frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “My sons saw him this morning,” Lucas said. “He was riding the paths and the hills. He stopped on his horse, and watched the forest and the hillsides, then rode on, and stopped elsewhere to do the same. My sons tracked him for a while.”

  “He is curious about the area,” Juliana said, wanting to defend him, though she found herself wondering at his actions.

  “No doubt he looks over the land to send word back to the sheriff. More of our forest home will be destroyed. More land will be trampled by Sassenachs.”

  “He might help us, if I asked him,” she ventured. Lucas shook his head and growled his doubt.

  “Listen to Juliana,” another man said. Juliana turned to see Uilleam, Beithag’s husband. Bent and grayed, he maintained a quiet but strong presence among the rebels. “If he cares for her as she seems to do for him, she could ask a favor of him, and he would grant it.”

  “What favor, husband?” Beithag asked.

  “Ask him to go to the sheriff and demand that he stop the raids here, so that we can live in peace. This part of the forest is on Elladoune’s property. He has a right to ask.”

  An idea blossomed in her mind. Juliana looked around at them. “All of you could live at Elladoune,” she said. “There is no garrison there, and plenty of space.”